


Expectations

by Nefhiriel



Series: Temeraire/Hornblower - Argentian as Dragon!Bush [1]
Category: Hornblower (TV), Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Crossover, Gen, Gen Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-16
Updated: 2011-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-20 11:44:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A recently promoted Captain Hornblower meets his dragon, Argentian--a dragon who has already seen service in the Corps, and recently lost his first captain in battle. Neither Horatio nor Argentian finds the other to be quite what they expected.</p><p><i>Hornblower/Temeraire crossover; Argentian as dragon!Bush.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta, [Imbecamiel](chiveofourown.org/users/Imbecamiel/pseuds/Imbecamiel)! Click [here](http://nefhiriel.livejournal.com/12339.html#cutid1), and [here](http://nefhiriel.livejournal.com/14334.html#cutid1) see her beautiful sketches for the story.

It was one of those turns of events that left you reeling, incapable of sorting your thoughts out in an organized fashion. Usually, Horatio prided himself on his ability to put his emotions in check and carry on.

But this was different. There weren't any guns firing, now; the men were in high spirits; the adrenaline of battle was spent, and it had purchased victory.

It had, in fact, purchased Horiato Hornblower a promotion.

Promotion. A captaincy. A dragon and crew of his own.

It was a pinnacle: the kind of thing every aviator dreamed of. But then why this confusion? He asked himself the question, clenching and unclenching his jaw as the answers came readily in the form of conversations overheard.

 _Already had a captain. Not a normal dragon. A dragon without that infamous fighting spark in him._

Oh, yes, Horatio knew why he'd been given a dragon who was whispered jokingly to be “the most boring middleweight dragon in all the Corps.” Of course, any man caught actually saying such things was frowned into silence, but the phrase made the rounds nonetheless.

And then there was his own reputation. Commissioned First Lieutenant, and now Captain, Horiatio Hornblower—most notable for his unconventional approach to solving problems. The less charitable simply called his tactics reckless bravado.

A more perfect match was never made, he thought to himself wryly. Doubtless there'd been some laughter over the supreme irony of it as the decision had been made. Indeed, he could hardly tell how much of the promotion was truly a promotion, and how much a none-too-subtle hint that he'd overstepped his bounds one too many times and was in need of reining in.

Whatever the reasoning behind the choice, he knew he was being ungrateful—and that was putting it lightly. He knew it, yet he couldn't help a few pangs of regret. He'd seen the acknowledgment of that disappointment in the eyes of Captain Pellew when his former captain had brought him the news. The look had been brief, and then Pellew had clapped him on the shoulder and handed him his commission, giving him an entirely different look, one that said “Make the most of it.” Being given a dragon wasn't like being given a ship. It was much, much more permanent than that—very likely a commission for life, even if the dragon was hardly a hatchling anymore. There might be disappointment, but there was also duty, and privilege.

Horatio knew he didn't _need_  a hatchling, or some great dragon with tremendous fighting spirit. He only needed a willing dragon. That was all he could ask, and more than many received after a lifetime of service.

Besides that, for all the idle talk, he knew that Argentian—the dragon he was to captain—had a reputation for loyalty. Generous commentators had called him a “very British dragon.”

In any case, he refused to allow any more disparaging thoughts admittance. After all, he hadn't even met Argentian yet. Certainly, the dragon's record seemed to speak for itself: his former captain highly decorated, and an impressive number of battles to both their credit.

All of this was what Horatio had been reminding himself of throughout a restless night and into a restless morning. Breakfast, he would have just as soon forgone.

“Eat, Captain,” a freshly-promoted First Lieutenant Kennedy had advised him, “it will give your nerves some time to settle. If,” he added with belated formality, a smile twitching at his lips, “I may be so bold, Sir.”

“No,” Horatio had returned with a weak smile, “you may not be so bold, Mister Kennedy. My nerves are fine, thank you.”

“Positively thriving, Sir,” Kennedy had concurred agreeably, leaving Horatio to the duty of stuffing food down an unwilling throat into a tight stomach.

Part of himself, he realized, was afraid Argentian would be able to see through any politeness and read every doubtful thought he'd been brooding over for the last few days. Which was ridiculous. They'd get on just—

“Sir, if you please,” said Matthews, sticking his head in through the doorway, “Mister Kennedy sends his compliments and says to tell you Argentian has arrived and is waiting on your convenience.”

“Matthews,” Horatio spoke quickly to stop him before he could leave, “how did...that is...” he stammered uncharacteristically, and the heat of embarrassment crept up his neck.

Matthews had mercy. “He seems a fine dragon, Sir.”

“Yes?”

“Yes Sir. Very fine.”

Horatio wasn't sure why, but the words gave him an immediate rush of pride, as if he'd never really doubted it himself.

“Thank you, Matthews, I'll be right along.”

But instead, he sat staring at his full plate for nearly five minutes before shaking himself and standing.

Ridiculous. A captain avoiding meeting his own dragon? He'd been working alongside dragons since he was eight years old, aspiring all the while to be in this very position.

He strode toward the door, cataloging his appearance as he made his way to the clearings even though he knew every article of his clothing was as polished, ironed, and washed as possible. He'd done it all last night while he'd been busy not sleeping.

The dragon was seated on its haunches, head lowered and turned toward Kennedy, who stood nearby. It afforded Horatio a moment to observe without being observed.

Argentian was larger than he'd imagined. Middleweight class, but not on the small side. From what he could see, the dragon was primarily a slate gray, interrupted by a tan underbelly and a disorganized splash of black markings on the forepaws. Horito had never heard a specific breed mentioned in reference to Argentian, and now he found he couldn't begin to guess at his heritage.

As he approached, Argentian turned his head, providing Horatio the full view of his face. There were sharper, cleaner black markings around his muzzle, a blade of the color running upwards between his eyes, like the lower half of an incomplete mask. The dragon's ruff went up slightly as he caught sight of Horiatio, examining him levelly.

Now that this moment of unprecedented importance had come, the words to greet it—to greet his dragon—deserted him. Instead, he found standing there, unable to break the dragon's gaze, and feeling transparent, and strangely insignificant, as he'd never felt in front of a dragon, even those much larger in size than Argentian.

“Captain,” Kennedy intervened in a cheerful tone, “this is Argentian, formerly under Captain Windamere. Argentian, this is—”

“—My Captain.”

Horatio felt at once as if he'd been shaken out of his stupor, and at the same as if that _shake_ had been the feel of the ground being pulled out from underneath him. The dragon made the two words sound like an oath he was swearing—some solemn pledge of honor, now irreversible, entered into on both their parts. It was a bestowal. It was a trust.

It made his situation, as captain of this magnificent creature, suddenly very tangible.

“I am delighted to meet you at last, Argentian,” he said quietly to the face now lowered on a level with his own.

And he found that he was.

***

Without any orders—save for a smiling suggestion from the admiral who had charge of this covert to “spend the day becoming better acquainted with your dragon”—Horatio had been briefly at a loss to know how the day might be passed.

Argentien, however, did not seem to share his awkwardness. After Kennedy had left, saluting with an “I'll leave you to it, then, Sir,” and a bow for Argentian, the dragon and returned his attention to Horatio.

He asked quietly (or, at least. in a reverberating, dragon-rumble _version_  of quietly): “Would you care to go aloft, Captain?”

Horiatio noticed, then, that Argentian was rigged out in light harness. “Yes,” he said, perhaps a trifle over-eagerly. Clearing his throat, he added with more dignity, “Yes, thank you, I would.”

“Let me test it for you, then, Captain.”

The dragon stirred and spread his wings as he said this, and raising a gust that blew at Horiato's hair and long aviator's jacket, shook himself to test the fit and sturdiness of the harness with a few expert movements. Feet once more firmly on the ground, he reported: “All lies well,” and crouched low to allow Horatio to board.

In flight, with a steady wind snatching words away, and forcing Horatio—if not the powerfully-voiced Argentian—to half shout, all conversation was carried about with lapses of silence in between. They were not awkward silences, however, and even when they'd landed back in the clearing there was a sense of more to be said hanging between them that made the necessary break in dialog companionable.

It was not quite noon, and Horatio was hardly hungry himself, but he realized Argentian might be after flying the better part of the morning, and inquired if he should like to eat.

Argentian gave a rumble of consideration, but shook his head. “I do not require anything yet, Captain. However, if you are hungry, our further acquaintance can wait until you have...”

“No—no, I am not hungry yet, either.” Then it struck him that perhaps the dragon was asking for some privacy, and he added hastily, “Of course, if you wish for some time to yourself...” He trailed off, uncertainly.

“Captain,” Argentian said, and Horatio was versed enough in the subtleties of dragon mannerisms to recognize the slight smile in his tone, “my time is entirely at your disposal.”

“Then...perhaps we might sit over there atop that hillock?”

They did so, and Horatio was aware of the irony of his contentment in the midst of a situation that the mere notion of would have caused him no small amount of trepidation but a few hours ago.

Horatio sat, knees drawn up, looking off at the distant skyline of London, and Argentian reclined in a sphinx-like pose beside him, tail neatly coiled. Everything about the dragon seemed fastidious, from the way he arranged himself, to the way he conducted himself in conversation. It was somewhat bemusing. He was more accustomed to dragons who entered into everything with gusto.

It all threw him a bit off balance. He did hate to appear to condescend to any dragon, and Argentian was one of the most dignified dragons he'd ever met.

“Sir, is something amiss?”

Horatio started from his thoughts abruptly. “What?” The question registered, then. “Ah...no. Not at all.”

“Forgive me, but you seem...troubled.”

“Perhaps I am just a bit preoccupied.”

“Are there any questions you would like to ask me? I am sure this commission is an adjustment for you.”

Horatio had never, ever heard a dragon refer to himself as a “commission,” and for a moment he could only stare blankly.

“Adjustment?” he finally stammered. “Well, of course, any promotion is an adjustment, but the adjustments needed to settle into a captaincy are the kind an aviator would welcome.”

“That is...not quite what I meant.” Argentian seemed to hesitate a moment. “I am quite aware I am not a _prime_  commission. Some,” he added humorously, “might even call me boring.”

“Argentian—

”No, please, Sir. I can see the humor in it. I am no hatchling, such as a new captain would regularly hope for, nor perhaps... full of quite so eager a longing for adventure as many another dragon.”

Argentian did not seem embarrassed by the fact. If anything, he was sympathetic. None of which eased Horatio's mortified conscience, for he could not deny these had been some of his very thoughts.

He realized that Argentian was still speaking, still matter-of-fact.

“Though I have it on good authority that both of my parents served in the Corps, and honorably, I am not at all the...result expected from their union. For, you see, my mother was Flamme-de-Glore, and it was hoped I would have her ability to breathe fire. Unfortunately, that was not the case, and, as you can see, I am not in any other way particularly distinguished. Even my coloring may be deemed somewhat unfortunate, for I cannot but be mistaken for a...mixed dragon, and I have had it pointed out that I look rather—'accidental,' was the word, I believe. But I assure you, though I may appear too lightly colored for it in the daylight—I am perfectly suited to covert operations, and can camouflage nicely with the dark.”

Horatio felt the blood rush to his face, now not with embarrassment but with unexpected anger. “An 'accidental' appearance?” he repeated, appalled. “Someone said this openly to you?”

Argentian, who had been staring into the distance, turned to look at him with an expression almost quizzical in the way he narrowed his eyes. “Yes. My former Captain responded much the same. He said it was very rude of the dragon to say so, and became uncharacteristically out of countenance because of it, raging about for several minutes.” Argentian shook his head, in memory or puzzlement. “But I think the Winchester was only very young and outspoken, and did not mean it at all badly.”

Horatio was temporarily lost for words, and Argentian added graciously, ”Do not feel compelled say anything, Captain. I have perhaps elaborated too much. I do not subscribe to self-pity; I only wished to make it clear that I am aware of my own shortcomings and I—”

“—Argentian, please. I do have something I would like to say. It is true that some dragons are born particularly fortunate. The same can be said for men. I do not know that  _I_ am the most deserving man in the Corps for this commission—the most deserving of a dragon of your experience. I have precious little wealth to my name, and comparatively little experience or prestige.” Argentian looked ready to object and Horatio held up a hand to stop him. “But, I do know that any aviator worthy of the name could only be proud to be the captain of a dragon as dedicated to the Corps as yourself.” Horatio paused to find the right words. Now that he was speaking, he felt at once as if he were talking too much, and saying too little of what he really meant. “I...” He stopped again, clearing his throat. “Many dragons do not take a second captain at all. If you had chosen not to, you would have earned the right to retire. I _am_  grateful for the opportunity to serve with you, Argentian.”

Argentian let out a long, soft sigh that ruffled a patch of long grass a few feet off. When he spoke, it was with a sense of politely repressed sorrow—which ached tiredly in the timbre of his voice, nonetheless. “I thank you, Captain. I am equally honored. However, I fear you compliment me beyond what I deserve. In truth, your praise should belong to Captain Windamere, and his dedication to the Corps. My dedication...” Another soft sigh. “It pales in comparison to what his was. I might very well have shirked my duty, in favor of my own feelings, were it not for the promise I made Captain Windamere many years ago. It was not long after I had reached my full growth, in fact. After a close encounter, in which we were boarded and he nearly killed, he made me swear to him that if he died I would not waste my life in the breeding grounds. As long as I am capable of fighting for my country I will fight for her, and for the memory of my first captain.”

Horatio was silent for a while, then, feeling as if there were no reply adequate. Argentian had kept a quietly dignified tone throughout; yet, Horatio felt as if he'd been once more bestowed with trust he hadn't earned. It was as if he owed Argentian an equally intimate glimpse into his own past. At the same time, he felt the weight of the irreparable loss the dragon had suffered, one which no act of his own could compensate for. He would never be the same to Argentian as his first captain, and he did not wish to show the irreverence of trying to be.

He also had the awkward sensation that Argentian felt it was his duty to recount anything Horiato asked—as if he were making a report to a superior officer.

“Argentian,” he began hesitantly, “do not feel that you _must_  tell me anything that you would prefer not to.”

“Oh, but Captain,” Argentian said, sounding younger, with more dragon-like spontaneity, such as Horatio was accustomed to, “I want you to feel very welcome as my captain.”

Horatio smiled. He'd witnessed so many signs of casual affection pass between Pellew and his dragon, Briseis, that somehow the sensation that washed over him was as if he'd already experienced it himself, vicariously, many times before. “My dear...” He paused, surprised a little at the automatic choice in words: a term also familiar to him from hearing it spoken between other captains and their dragons, but rather startling to discover on his own tongue.

“My dear,” he repeated, finding the term wasn't as foreign as it should have been, “I already do.”

Argentian lowered his head in an unexpectedly shy manner, as if to hide his expression, and gave a low rumble that Horatio liked to think sounded pleased.

***

Though he had only been inactive one day, Horatio woke—his second morning as a captain—with the intense need to do _something_.

Admiral Hirst only toyed with him briefly when Horatio came to report, drawling: “Are you sure you wouldn't like another day, Captain? You can be spared _one_  more, I think...”

“No—Sir.” Horatio tried not to let his impatience show. “That is, I believe Argentian is as eager to resume activity as I.”

Argentian was. He greeted the news—orders to join Pellew's formation in training exercises—with a bright, “Very good, Sir.” The eager, cat-like twitch of the tip of Argentian's tail was not lost on Horatio.

“Glad you could join us,” was Pellew's simple greeting, but there was a smile in his eyes as he added, stressing the word meaningfully, “ _Captain_.” 

Pellew's dragon, Briseis, was a Regal Copper. Horatio knew her well, from his service with Pellew, and the dragon greeted him in her bright and cheerful voice. An odd match, some might think it: a crusty veteran like Pellew, and the sweet-natured, if behemoth, Briseis. Horatio, however, who had long ago seen the perfect harmony between the two, knew better. More than one green recruit had tried to hide an expression of surprise when Pellew turned from barking orders at his men to give his “Brise” a fond stroke or pat, along with a gruff word of praise.

“Ah!” Briseis said, addressing Argentian. “You are very fortunate to have gotten Horatio. You know, he was _my_  first lieutenant before he was your captain.” Horatio recognized it for Briseis' familiar half-serious, half-teasing way.

Argentian, however, did not seem to know entirely how he should reply, and answered uncertainly, and with seriousness that contrasted with the Regal Copper's cheerfulness: “Ah... Yes. I am sorry about that.” He amended quickly, and would have surely blushed if a dragon could, “Not that I am sorry he is now _my_  captain, of course...” As he finished, Argentian gave a subtle rear of his head, not unlike a proud stallion, and Horatio shared a look with Pellew who was observing the dragons' exchange with eyebrows raised.

“Come, now, you two'll have to finish squabbling over poor Captain Hornblower later,” Pellew interrupted in his leniently stern tone.

“I was not squabbling,” Briseis interjected. “And I am pleased to meet you Argentian. And I am glad you've been made captain, Horatio. Even if I shan't have you anymore.” With perhaps a little more seriousness than teasing, she added to Argentian, “But you had better make sure you take care of him.”

“I...will,” Argentian promised, as her and Pellew left. “A Regal Copper,” he said, half to himself. “A very impressive dragon. You must have been proud to be her first lieutenant.”

“Mmm,” Horatio agreed. “But she was not _my_  dragon.”  



	2. Chapter 2

  
“You look cold, Captain.”

Horatio turned, surprised at the contact, and Argentian pulled back from nudging Horatio's shoulder with his nose, looking taken aback by his own actions. “I did not intend to...” the dragon began.

“Argentian,” Horatio interrupted, humorously, “You're not going to break me. At least not so easily.” He reached up, instinctively, to offer a reassuring stroke upon the dragon's muzzle—then felt compelled to pause for permission, hand not quite making contact. Argentian lowered his head the necessary distance, and Horatio smiled at the success, simply letting it linger for a moment before withdrawing his hand.

“Yes,” he answered the dragon's initial comment, as if nothing had transpired, “I  _am_  cold.” The weather was taking a turn for the colder. Soon things would be as frozen as the war had, apparently, become. He was trying not to chafe at the lack of orders.

Though Horatio hadn't felt the cold during their formation maneuvers, now that they'd stopped the chill seemed to creep even through his heavy aviator's coat.

“Do go inside, then,” Argentian suggested. “Warm yourself by the fire.”

Coming from Argentian, it was a positively mother-hennish sign of concern. Or, perhaps, Horatio thought, he himself was simply becoming better at reading the dragon's concern.

“I will, for a while. But it is early, yet. I thought perhaps...” Horatio trailed off, surreptitiously glancing up to gage Argentian's reaction. He'd known the dragon for over a week, now, and on one level it seemed as if their quiet understanding of each other had existed for much longer. On another level, Horatio was continually reminded of how little he _really_  understood of the thoughts transpiring behind those steady blue eyes. He knew a lot about dragons in general, but not, it seemed, nearly enough to be certain of how to handle Argentian. Indeed, “handle” was not even the correct word. You “handled” a wild creature, and there was nothing remotely wild or unintelligent about Argentian.

“Yes, Captain?” Argentian prodded.

Horatio shook himself and forged ahead. “I thought perhaps you might not mind if I read to you for a while.” He knew not all dragons enjoyed that sort of thing, but he'd known Pellew to read the occasional chapter to Briseis, and had been weighing whether or not he should make the offer to Argentian.

To his relief, Argentian's eyes widened slightly in what Horatio had come to recognize as Argentian's version of keen interest. “I would like that very much,” was all he said, however, and then, more circumspectly, “Only, it is getting cold, and you are a bit wet from when it rained earlier, and perhaps you should stay indoors.”

Horatio couldn't help but laugh—and blast the dragon's perfect sense of decorum.

Argentian looked predictably affronted, drawing himself up in surprise, no doubt, at Horatio's response. “I did mean to dictate to you, Captain,” he said, sounding more embarrassed than anything. “Or...have I said something very amusing?”

Horatio suppressed his laughter, though he could not help smiling. “I am in perfectly good health. I wish you would not distress yourself over a little rain and cold. I've stayed out for much longer in much worse and come to no harm.”

Argentian looked very subdued, for all the world like a great big puppy enduring a scolding. “I am...sorry.”

 _Blast_  the dragon. Was he trying to make him feel guilty? “I didn't mean it like that, Argentian. Blast it...” he said it aloud this time, and aimed at himself, tinged with rueful apology. “I'm not very good at this, but I  _am_  trying.”

“You are a very good captain, Horatio, Sir,” Argentian said quickly, earnestly—and, Horatio noted, for the first time using his given name in place of merely “captain,” even if it was followed by a ubiquitous “sir.”

“But I wish to be more than just a good captain, Argentian. I wish to be your friend as well. I have seen captains treat their dragons as little more than transport—and I have seen captains treat their dragons as the equals they are. I will  _not_  be the former.”

Argentian gave a soft, incredulous snort. “You could never be the former, Captain. I am certain of it.”

Unfortunately, humans  _could_  blush, and Horatio nearly did at the genuine compliment. He changed the subject quickly back to the original question. “I do not have a very large library at my disposal. They're really little more than war manuals—books on tactics—and books of mathematics, but for now...”

“War manuals?” Argentian repeated, and this time nobody could have mistaken his eagerness.

An hour later, after having had something to eat and time to warm himself near the fire, Horatio re-emerged from the warmth of the officers' quarters with several thick tomes under his arm, and a dry coat over his shoulders.

Argentian lifted his head as Horatio approached, inspecting him briefly with a critical eye, as if searching out signs of impending illness. Finding none, he gave a small toss of his head, shaking his ruff like a relieved bird shakes the rain from its feathers, and settled it again.

They read for several hours, until the dim evening light began to make it difficult. Though his voice was tired, it was with real regret that Horatio was forced to close the book. He leaned his head back against Argentian's side, the heat radiating from his scales providing plenty of warmth, and the rise and fall of the dragon's breathing creating a soothing motion that could've easily put him to sleep if he'd closed his eyes.

“Captain?” came the dragon-whisper, Argentian clearly wondering if he  _had_  closed his eyes and fallen asleep.

“Mmm,” Horatio acknowledged him with a murmur.

“Are you quite warm enough?”

“Mmm...yes. Perfectly so.” Despite his best efforts, Horatio found his eyelids had begun to droop. “Would you mind terribly if I slept right here?”

His answer was a rustle, and the touch of a wing spreading out to shelter him—at first Argentian seemed to hold it out, hovering uncertainly, then gently settled the wing over him, closing in the warmth.

***

“Archie, have you ever heard Argentian mention anything particular that he might like to own?”

Kennedy looked up from his plate in surprise. “Own?”

“Yes—you know what I mean. The sort of things dragons generally like.”

“What, you mean a great deal of gaudy jewelry, and other shiny odds-and-ends—anything that sparkles?” Kennedy said, not derisively—but certainly incredulously, considering the particular dragon in question. “ _Argentian_? Hardly.” He frowned a little as he chewed on a bite of food. “I've never heard him  _say_  anything, certainly. And really, you know, I don't think that sort of thing would suit him.”

“No,” Horatio agreed, sitting back in his chair, “I don't believe they would.” It was late, and the dining hall was mostly deserted. “Argentian is not easily impressed, I think.”

“Leastways not by a bunch of cheap baubles. His captain, on the other hand...” Kennedy gave an upwards glance, and a smirk, “Argentian worships the ground he walks on.”

“ _Archie_.”

“What? It's clear as day, Horatio.” Kennedy, still smirking, took the advice of Horatio's glare and abandoned his point. “At any rate, if you want to know what Argentian would like, why don't you just ask him?”

“It's not that simple.”

“Would you like me to ask him for you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Horatio,” Kennedy said slowly, setting down his fork, “he'll like whatever you get him, you know.”

“Don't start that again,” Horatio warned, wary of more teasing. “And did I say I was getting him anything? I'm only considering it. It's nearly Christmas, after all, and, well...” He shrugged, not sure where he'd been headed, and wishing now that he hadn't raised the topic with Archie at all.

But Archie said, quite seriously: “I think it's a wonderful idea. Though it would probably never even occur to Argentian  _to_  ask for anything, I think it would please him no end if you did get him something. Anyway, I don't believe there's a dragon alive who'd be able to dislike a present from his captain. All you have to do is find something that suits Argentian.”

“Right,” Horatio said, less certainly. “Something that suits him.”

The only problem was—even after weeks of spending time with the dragon—he hadn't the first clue what might fall under that category.

“Ask him, Horatio,” Archie urged. “He might've put the fear of God into Styles with that steely look of his, but he won't bite. Not  _you_.”

“ _Thank you_ , Mister Kennedy.”

***

It was not long before Horatio was afforded the opportunity to do as Archie had suggested.

“Argentian,” he began, as casually as he could manage, turning the page of the book he held, “apart from books, is there anything that you are particularly fond of?”

“Fond of?” Argentian repeated, a bit blearily. His head had come to rest on his forepaws as he'd listened to Horatio read, and he seemed to be growing quite drowsy after consuming several sheep for his supper.

“Yes. Fond of. Isn't there anything else you enjoy?”

“Well,” Argentian said, ponderously, “I've heard a violin and cello played together, and that was very nice to listen to. Captain Windamere could play the violin a little, as well—though only badly, he said—and he would sometimes borrow another captain's instrument to play it for a while.” He was watching Horatio not exactly  _hopefully_ , but with something that was worse: a sort of calm assurance, as if he would've no more dreamed of doubting his captain's musical ability than he would have doubted Horatio's ability to fight, or carry polite conversation, or read.

It was a display of a part of the dragon's personality that Horatio was becoming more familiar with. Argentian might hold himself to exacting standards, critically, without any apparent emotion, comparing himself to other dragons. But where his captain was concerned... Well, as much as he was loath to admit it, Archie seemed to be right.

It was awkward to be so aware of your own very imperfectness, and look up and see the light of almost child-like admiration shining in Argentian's unblinking eyes.

“I wish I could oblige you, but I am afraid I do not even play a little,  _or_  badly. I've never touched an instrument in my life.” Indeed, he'd scarcely so much as hummed a tune properly. “I confess, I've never been able to understand music in the slightest.”

Argentian, to Horatio's surprise, gave a rumble, like a laugh. “You'll pardon my saying so, Captain, but I do not think one is supposed to _understand_  music.”

“Then what in the blazes  _is_  one supposed to do with it?” Horatio demanded without heat, and only a little sarcasm.

“Appreciate it for what it is, I believe,” Argentian replied, still amused.

“Ah,” Horatio said, none the wiser for this revelation. “Perhaps you might show me how some day.”

“I would be delighted, Captain.”

“But isn't there anything else?” Horatio pressed after a moment's silence.

“I am...not entirely certain what you mean. Should I want something else?”

“My dear,” Horatio exclaimed in exasperation, “a want is not something one is  _ordered_  to have. I am talking of preferences. Isn't there anything you have ever wished to possess as your own?”

“You mean...” Argentian spoke slowly, eyes shifting beneath drooping eyelids to regard Horatio almost with suspicion, “something like the string of pearls Briseis has?”

“Exactly,” Horatio seized upon the example with relief.

But then Argentian said, “No. Nothing like that. It is not very practical, although...”

“Yes?”

“It is very fine, and nice to look at.”

Horatio sensed his hesitation, and suggested: “Perhaps it is a bit ostentatious.”

“Yes, perhaps a bit,” Argentian agreed—and this time Horatio was listening for, and found, a distinct note of wistfulness in his voice as he said it.

“All the same, I do not see the harm in it. After all, an aviator does not hesitate to wear a medal he has earned, and I do not see why a dragon might not similarly take pleasure in what could be called a small token of their own valor.”

“I am sure Briseis has earned it,” Argentian offered generously, though still with a hidden thread of envy—and then added with less envy, and, in its place, a wealth of subdued awe: “It does suit her admirably, I think.”

“Mmm,” Horatio concurred, gazing across the courtyard as he considered his next approach carefully. He felt he was close to prying the truth from Argentian.

In the end, he didn't need to say more, for Argentian volunteered sleepily:

“There was a chain I saw a Winchester with, once, which was very bright and silver...”

Horatio waited, willing the dragon to finish.

“It did not seem  _so_  terribly impractical, though the medallion was, perhaps, too large.”

“I imagine the medallion was silver as well?”

“Yes,” Argentian replied, voice soft with the kind of fondness Horatio had seen many dragons display for jewelry—though expressed discretely, almost apologetically, as only Argentian would. “There was no jewel on it, only markings etched into it that I never got to see closely. But it looked very bright in the sunlight, I remember.”

Horatio hid a smile, making a studied pretense of flipping through the book of mathematics he'd been reading. “I am sure it was, my dear, and most suitable for any dragon to admire.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

***

Horatio started awake to the sound of rapid knocking on his door. There was an urgency to it that made him bolt up to answer immediately, despite his state of disarray.

It was Matthews, and he started in the instant the door began to open, breathing heavily as if he'd run: “Sir—begging your pardon, but I think you might want to head to the clearing. There's been an incident with some prisoners nearly escaping, and Argentian intervened—”

“—is he injured?” Horatio was already cramming on his boots and grabbing up his jacket to follow Matthews.

“Not that I know of, Sir, but it all happened so fast, and I just caught the end of it, when they were already subduing the Frenchman's dragon—”

“— _dragon_?” Horatio interrupted again. They were striding down the hall, now, Horatio leading the way himself in quick, long strides.

“Yes, Sir. I don't rightly know how it happened, or where he came from, but apparently it was his captain we had prisoner and the dragon come back to try 'n rescue him.”

Horatio heard it then, as they stepped out of the barracks: the sound of a dragon shrieking—in rage or from pain, or both.

He began to run towards the clearing, the fog of sleep clearing rapidly from his mind, the sound like a physical jolt. He didn't have time to be surprised at the magnitude of combined anger and fear that hit him in a torrent at the thought of Argentian being hurt. He only prayed to God it had not been him who had made that terrible noise.

The scene was one of chaos. The flash of yellow and red was what immediately caught his attention—Briseis was reared back with a forepaw upon the neck of a large Chanson-de-Guerre. Apparently, it was the French dragon that had made those noises, for it was even now keening pathetically, eyes tracking the movements of some dozen men, half of whom were in chains, being manhandled by several glaring marines towards a waiting wagon.

And there was Argentian, watching attentively over the situation, close at hand to a marine who held one of the prisoners at gunpoint. Disheveled and hatless as the prisoner was, his uniform—and, more than that, the agonized and guilty expression he wore—made it clear the man was the French captain the dragon had come for.

But Horatio wasn't given time to register much more than this, for a shout was suddenly raised as one of the prisoners broke free, driving his elbow into the stomach of a nearby guard. Several of his compatriots acted along with him, scattering in a blind bid for freedom. Horatio found himself right in the path of one of the escapees, and was just preparing to stop the man when, with a roar and a gust raised by flapping wings, he found his view completely blocked by Argentian's shoulder, the dragon's tail lashing angrily back and forth behind him.

Horatio instinctively raised a staying hand, Argentian's name on his lips, half fearing the dragon was about to tear the man limb from limb. The growling reverberation of rage Argentian had given was so at odds with the painstakingly polite behavior Horatio was accustomed to seeing from the dragon that he felt momentarily stunned by it. Of course Argentian knew how to fight. It had simply never occurred to him that Argentian might fight...well, quite so much like a  _dragon_.

Argentian turned after a moment, expression still fierce and snarling at first—then, looking at Horatio, the cold fire faded from his eyes, leaving him the carefully mannered Argentian once more.

“Good morning, Captain. Are you all right?”

“Am  _I_  all right?” Horatio echoed in disbelief, trying to get a better glimpse beyond Argentian to where orders were being shouted by the now surly marines as they recaptured their prisoners yet again. “You haven't killed him, have you?”

“Not a scratch. Although,” Argentian added darkly, “I should have liked to.”

“ _Argentian_ ,” Horatio scolded, but mildly. “He wasn't even armed—he could hardly have done me any damage.”

Argentian made a noise that could've been assent, or a grumble.

There was more action around them, now, as several curious dragons arrived upon the scene to help with the French dragon—though the Chanson-de-Guerre seemed to have gone limp from exhaustion and defeat as its captain was taken away.

“What in God's name...” Pellew began, coming up beside Horatio and surveying the scene.

Helpfully, Briseis came over in a triumphant gait, exclaiming: “It was wonderful! He was there before any of us knew what was happening, and he swooped in and he  _trounced_  her, and he—”

Horatio was familiar with Briseis' love for words, and for narrating a situation at length—and Pellew even more so.

Pellew interrupted, impatiently, “Briseis—the short version, my dear, if you please.”

“Argentian  _trounced_  her,” Briseis repeated, ruff twitching excitedly, yellow eyes wide. She could appear at times very much like a young and excited Winchester in a Regal Copper's body. “He had her downed, all by himself, even before I arrived, and she is so much bigger than he is, too.”

Argentian did not seem offended by the back-handed nature of that compliment. Indeed, he looked vaguely discomfited by the enthusiasm, and rather as if he would've liked to tell Briseis to be quiet. Instead, he relayed with all the officiousness that Briseis lacked: “She was wounded beforehand, Captain. I believe she was left for dead when her crew was captured—only, as you can see, she is very much alive. She returned to try to rescue her captain, and I have stopped her with Briseis' help.”

“I see,” Pellew said, watching as the last of the prisoners was put into the wagon. “And you  _trounced_  her, eh?”

Argentian's ruff twitched a little, too, though not with excitement. “I have prevented her from retaking her captain, Sir.”

“And a job well done, too,” Pellew commented, stroking Briseis’ neck.

But Argentian seemed to be waiting for Horatio's response—which he gave, heartily, with a swell of pride.

“Very well done, my dear. Very well done indeed.”

Later that day, after the situation had been fully contained—and after Argentian's equally proud crew had given the dragon three raucous cheers, much to Argentian's embarrassment—Horatio sought out Archie.

“Something on your mind?” Archie, ever able to read his moods, obviously knew very well that there  _was_  something on his mind even before he opened his mouth.

Horatio leaned his shoulder against the sturdy mantle above the fireplace, the warmth of the flames penetrating the chill acquired through a day of being out of doors. “I think I know what to get Argentian.”

“Yes?”

“I had thought to give it to him nearer Christmas. But I believe I have a better idea. I could use your help with it.”

Archie smiled. “I am entirely at your disposal, Captain.”  



	3. Epilogue

  
“ _Ach_. You daft creature— _hold still_ , or I'll fetch that Regal Copper to sit on yer head.”

Coming within sight of the clearing, Horatio was just in time to catch a plaintive moan from Argentian. The dragon was on its side, ruff flattened in an aggrievement, but wing obediently lifted to allow access to... Horatio stopped mid-step at the sight of the ugly rakes: cuts made by dragon claws, slashed from the Argentian's shoulder and going some length across his right side.

“Argentian...”

The dragon turned its head automatically at Horatio's voice, and the open expression of guilt was all the confirmation he needed.

“Why did you not say something earlier? I specifically asked you if you had received injury.”

Argentian lowered his head to rest on the grass, eyes turned upwards in a manner indeed sorry, and truly pitiful to behold. “I...forgot.”

“You forgot?” Horatio reiterated in disbelief. “How could you forget... _this_?” He gesturing to the wound.

“I am...sorry.”

“Aye, that you are,” agreed Glenn in his thick Scottish brogue. “A sorry creature, and an even sorrier mess you make o' yerself more often than not.”

Horatio had only met Doctor Glenn on a few occasions. He'd come with Argentian, one of the members of Argentian's crew that had Horatio had retained. He recalled now the hesitant yet earnest request Argentian had made on the doctor's behalf—and something told Horatio that this scenario before him was an all too familiar one.

“Don't you worry yerself, Captain,” Glenn continued, taking a cloth from a nearby assistant who stood by with an assortment of the doctor's supplies. “He'll do nicely, when I'm finished with him.”

Horatio nodded his thanks and, though there were plenty of hot words for Argentian on the tip of his tongue, he bit them back for the time being, letting the doctor do his work.

Argentian, for his part, lay languidly penitent, with not a further whimper of complaint.

“There, now,” Glenn said, after he'd finished his ministrations, and stood back to survey his work. “You'll mend all right, you great hulking idiot. Just see to it that ye give yerself the time to do so.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Argentian acquiesced humbly, gingerly lowering his wing.

“Captain, may I have a word?”

They moved out of earshot, and Glenn began with: “He is a great hulking idiot on occasion, Captain.”

“But?”

Glenn's expression softened. “But I think you should know that, additionally, the daft creature's got a mind like bloody hound dog. Give him a smell o' the fox—the call o' duty—an' he doesn't hear a sound, nor smell anythin' _but_ that fox, until the chase is over.”

“You're saying he did forget--that he ' _forgets_ ' this sort of thing often?”

Glenn sighed. “He learn't it from Captain Windamere. No disrespect to the man's memory, but he was as stubborn as an ox when it came to owning to an injury. He an' that dragon o' yers were cut from the same stone.” He shook his head. “Drove me right mad, between the two o' them—neither one feelin' the need to say a word, though they might very well be knockin' on death's door. But I'll tell you one thing, Captain: there wasn't a need for the wastin' o' words between _them_. They understood one another plenty with a look.” A faint smile touched the man's lips. “They'd tell on each other is what they'd do, Captain. I came to rely on the one knowing more o' the other's condition than they themselves either knew of their own state o' health.”

“I see.”

“Now don't look so down on yerself, Captain. Some dragons take more figurin' out than others—and that's our Argentian for sure.” Glenn smiled encouragingly. “But he's taken to you in special way, like I never thought t' see him do with another captain. You're _his_ captain now, an' he won't forget it ever. He won't betray yer trust, neither, Captain—though he may give you plenty o' gray hairs from worryin' over his sorry hide, which he seems so keen t' injure.”

“I don't suppose there's anything else I aught know about this complicated business of understanding and keeping alive the _daft idiot creature_ I find myself responsible for?” Horatio asked, finding his anger, despite all efforts, evaporating to give way to mere exasperation, and some bewilderment.

“Lord, Sir, if I knew everything there was tell about Argentian that _would_ be something.” This time, Glenn's smile was less reassuring. “But that's your place, Captain.”

 _Thank God_ , seemed to be Glenn's unspoken addendum. And Horatio thought in response: _Dear God... He's right._ It _was_ his place—and quite the job he'd made of it.

After Glenn had gone, Horatio stood a while considering his words. None came—and he realized that, when it came to Argentian, planned speeches had never worked for him in the past, so there was no reason to expect they would now.

In the end, it was Argentian who had been premeditating what he would say, and said it all in a passionate outburst most unusual for him.

“Captain, it was wrong of me not to say something, and I _am_ sorry, only I did forget that I'd been injured, and...really...it only stung a very _little_. I did not realize it needed Doctor Glenn's care at all, or I would have informed him much sooner.” The dragon had sat up while Horatio had been gone, but his head drooped in such a forlorn way that—combined with the heart-felt words—made it impossible to stay angry at him. “I...I _shall_ inform him, next time,” Argentian finished resolutely, with a small stammer.

Horatio had never heard a dragon stammer, probably because he was so used to Brisies, always burbling over with so much joy that her words were far more likely to ram into each other than ever leave a gap between. The lapse was strangely endearing coming from Argentian: an involuntary vulnerability in the dragon's iron-clad formality.

“ _You_ ,” Horatio said, with as much firmness as he could muster, “shall inform _me_ the next time you are injured. Straight away.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And furthermore, if, at some point in the future, I tell you that Doctor Glenn needs to assess you for possible injury, I want no debate. You are allowed to forget, Argentian, but you are _not_ allowed to go off and die on me without so much as a by-your-leave.”

The blue eyes widened in true horror, despite the teasing edge of Horatio's words. “Oh, I would not have died, Horatio. I promise I would not have. I have almost died before, twice, and if I had felt at all like I did then, I should have told you at once.”

Horatio reached out to place his hand upon the dark blade of scales on Argentian's now close muzzle, stroking upwards gently. Far from displaying his usual reticence, if anything, Argentian leaned into it, like a purring cat who wants its chin scratched.

“I know you would have, my dear, which is why I find it impossible to be upset with you.” Horatio would _not_ mention the part those solemn eyes, regarding him so attentively, were playing in ruining his temper, either.

They stood like that for several minutes, before Horatio asked, softly, “May I ask you something, Argentian?”

“Anything, Captain.”

“Is it...very hard to serve another captain when you have already had one before that was dear to you?” He did not ask out of a desire to be flattered. After what Glenn had said about Windamere, he wished honestly to know, and found he feared the answer.

“I thought, once, it might be,” Argentian confessed, then paused to nudge Horatio's hand, for he had ceased the stroking motion as he listened to the dragon's reply. When Horatio had resumed, Argentian finished, with the simplicity of dragon reasoning: “But that was before I had met my second captain.”

***

Despite his injury, Argentian insisted they were not enough to stop him from training in formation, and a reluctant Glenn agreed that there was no reason to forbid him.

They spent much of the next morning in training with the formation, Pellew introducing several new maneuvers that were rigorous enough to leave Argentian ravenous for his mid-day meal.

“I do not believe I have eaten so much at one time since I was a growing hatchling,” Argentian commented afterwards to Horation, licking the blood from his chops with ironic delicacy considering he had all but devoured the sheep whole. He sounded somewhat perplexed by the amout he had consumed.

“I think you have earned it,” Horatio returned, mildly.

Argentian considered that, than gave a small discontented shake of his ruff. “But you see I was so certain I had it calculated precisely...”

“Had calculated... _what_ precisely?”

“What sustenance I require in direct correlation to the miles I have flown. I have traveled much further and needed much less. Perhaps,” Argentian wondered, “I have gorged myself to an unseemly degree.”

Horatio might have laughed, had he not come to recognize that Argentian took this sort of worry quite seriously. “Not a bit,” he assured instead. “On occasion, I have been known to eat very large portions indeed. It is not a science, you know—eating. ”

“Is it not?”

Horatio couldn't help a small smile. “Are you sure you couldn't eat another sheep?”

“ _Captain_ ,” Argentian remonstrated.

“A jest, my dear,” Horatio explained.

“Ah.” Argentian's clarity was short-lived. “Then...if I had eaten one more, that _would_ have been gorging myself?”

Horatio closed his eyes briefly in tolerant exasperation. “Come along, Argentian.”

The afternoon was spent in drills with the ground crew and it was growing late by the time they were finished—but per this instructions, Kennedy came hurrying up to hand Horatio the package Horatio had entrusted him with.

“Be so good as to have the men wait a moment, Mister Kennedy.”

“Aye, Sir.” Kennedy saluted, a boyish gleam of enthusiasm in his eyes as he turned to order the crew to stand by and assemble.

“Captain,” Argentian spoke quietly, watching the proceedings with clear confusion, “I think they have performed admirably, have they not?”

“Indeed they have.” Horatio inclined his head—then, seeing the men were standing ready and listening, raised his voice to include them in the audience. “A crews' moral can not help but be raised by the bravery of their dragon.”

It was an understatement. Several of the crew—prominently including Orrock, Matthews, and Styles—were looking ready to break out in cheering.

Horatio proceeded to unwrap the brown paper from the box he held. “Though I am in no position to grant you an official commendation, Argentian, I hope the commendation of your crew, and of your captain, is not a mean honor—nor this small token in recognition of your valor.”

As he spoke, he ceremoniously produced the “token” he and Kennedy had belabored to select. It was as close an approximation to the description of Argentian's much coveted medallion as they'd been able to procure.

Argentian stared at the large, silver medallion dangling from its sturdy chain—and Horatio needed no more confirmation of success than the look of almost tender admiration in the dragon's wide eyes.

“It is...for me?” Argentian asked, tone all wonder.

“All yours, my dear, and rightfully earned by your selfless bravery yesterday.”

“I was only doing what had to be done.” Argentian's demurral was heart-felt. Nonetheless he remained fixated on the glinting object in his captain's hand.

“Aye, and you did it well. May I?”

After but a feeble pause, Argentian lowered his head, flattening his ruff so that the chain slid easily over his neck.

Horatio stood back proudly to observe the effect, relieved he'd had the chain made the correct size. The medallion rested just right at Argentian's breastbone, and the silver against the dragon's tan and blue coloring was ideal.

“Let's have it now, men,” called Matthews, “three cheers for Argentian.”

As the men raucously obeyed, Argentian looked first started and unseure, than pleased, and—Horatio liked to think—quite regal with the medal glinting at his chest.

At a nod from Horatio, Kennedy then dismissed the men, leaving captain and dragon alone in the clearing.

“Do I not perhaps look just a little...ridiculous? I mean no disrespect to the honor itself, but it _is_ very _bright_ and beautiful.”

Horatio nearly had a few words for Argentian, then, about pride and having an overactive preoccupation with ones self-image. But he found he did not say them.

“Argentian, my dear,” coming closer, Horatio leaned his shoulder against the dragon's side, looking up into the Argentian's affirmation-seeking gaze as the dragon swiveled his head towards him, “I have never in all my life known a dragon more suited.”

Argentian rumbled contentedly at the answer, and Horatio wondered that he had ever wanted any other dragon.

***

 _The End_


End file.
